Yulina nodded. “Alice comes by to feed him, but he will not leave this house.”
“That’s a stupid cat, if you ask me,” Gary replied.
“He has a broken heart,” Yulina said. “Even cats can have broken hearts.”
Gary rolled his eyes and looked to me for a response, but I looked down at my tennis shoes. “Anyway,” he said, allowing me to step inside first. “It’s a cute little place. Annabelle bought it twenty-five years ago, and she’s been fixing it up ever since. Property values stay high in this area because of the bigger houses down the street.”
I stepped inside and looked around. The front rooms—a living room, dining room, and kitchen—were small but cozy. There was a worn couch and an armchair facing an older television set. In front of the armchair was a TV stand, and I realized that this was probably where Annabelle ate her meals. I was prone to this behavior as well, living alone, a fact that irritated my mother to no end. She was convinced the reason I’d failed to find myself a husband was because I ate from a TV stand instead of at a table that I didn’t even own.
Beyond the living room was the dining room, and instead of place settings on the table, there were skeins and skeins of yarn in baskets. When Yulina saw me staring at them, she said, “Annabelle loved to knit. She was in a club that met downtown at the yarn shop.”
“Alice told me,” I said. It sounded like something an eighty-year-old grandmother would do after church on Sundays, and I couldn’t really picture Alice, full of spit and vinegar, sitting still long enough to knit. “I guess she’s in some kind of club?”
“St. Francis,” Yulina replied.
“That’s it,” I said. I was starting to think that everybody knew about these women but me, and I still wasn’t entirely sure that they weren’t a cult.
Yulina rolled a piece of fuchsia yarn between her fingertips. “Do you knit?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, trying not to laugh. “I mean, I’ve never really tried.”
“I am sure Alice could teach you.”
“Oh, I’m not going to stay,” I said, taking a step back. “I’ve been here a day too long already.”
Gary nodded. “Of course, you have a job back in Seattle. And a nice boyfriend, I’m sure.” He gave me a wry smile. “Pretty girl like you ought to have a boyfriend.”
Beside me Yulina flinched, almost imperceptibly, and I hoped Gary’s comment hadn’t made her uncomfortable. I liked her, and even though I had zero intention of staying in Timber Creek, I didn’t want to make enemies before I’d at least had a chance to make them on my own merit.
“What is it that you do?” Yulina asked, turning to me. “Your career?”
I swallowed. “Well, I worked for a newspaper until a few weeks ago,” I replied. “It closed down, so I’m temporarily out of a job.”
“Does your boyfriend work?” Gary asked.
“No,” I said, wishing he would shut up about my boyfriend. “I don’t have one of those either.”
“So what’s keeping you in Seattle?” he wanted to know. “A mortgage?”
“No,” I said once again, feeling my cheeks begin to burn. “I’m living with my parents right now.”
Yulina turned away from Gary, shaking her head slightly, and I left them to wander down the hallway. There were two bedrooms on one end with a hallway bathroom and another bedroom at the other end with a bathroom of its own. Like the front rooms, these rooms were also small and sparsely decorated. I opened the door to the bedroom closest to the bathroom and flipped the light switch.
It was clear this had been Annabelle’s bedroom. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was stuffed full of things—more yarn, three dressers, a writing desk, and a four-poster bed. For the first time since I entered the house, it felt like I was intruding on someone’s private and personal space, and I fought the urge to back out. The only thing that stopped me was that I knew if I left the room, I’d have to face Gary and Yulina and their barrage of questions about my nonexistent life back in Seattle.
I walked over to the bed and put my hand on the frayed patchwork quilt covering it. It looked like a quilt my mother had showcased in one of the guest bedrooms. As a child, I’d loved to play in that room and with the quilt, even though my mother told me hundreds of times that the quilt was an antique and not to be played with.
When I was about eight, I snuck into the room with a bottle of cherry-red nail polish, intent on making my toenails match the cool teenage neighbor’s across the street. She’d been my babysitter the night before and told me that the only acceptable color on toenails was red. Feeling very grown-up, I sat down at the edge of the bed and positioned my feet onto the folded quilt and began to paint my toenails. As I painted, the bottle next to me tipped over and spilled the cherry-red nail polish all over the quilt. I didn’t notice until I was finished, and the nail polish was all but dry.
My mother, who was furious when she caught me, told me the quilt had been in our family for generations and that I’d spoiled an heirloom. She said I was too young to understand, but that one day when I had children I’d know the importance of preserving history. At the time, I’d been more hurt that she told me I was too young to understand something rather than sorrowful I’d ruined the quilt.
Now, looking at Annabelle’s quilt, I wondered if she’d kept it on her own bed for everyday use because she’d had no children to spill nail polish onto important things. The quilt, along with everything else in her house, had been safe from sticky little hands.
“I see you found Annabelle’s bedroom,” Yulina said from the doorway. “It was her favorite room of the house.”
I turned, startled by the interruption. I’d forgotten about the two people I was with, and it took me a moment to respond. “You must have been very good friends with her,” I said, “to know so much about her.”
Yulina looked over her shoulder before entering the room. “She taught me to knit when I was pregnant with my daughter,” she said. “I wanted to knit a blanket, but I did not know how. My English was not good. She helped me with that also.”
I wanted to ask Yulina where she was from and how she came to a small town like Timber Creek instead of one of the larger cities like Seattle, but Gary found us before I had the chance.
“So,” he said, wrapping one of his arms around Yulina’s waist. “What do you think of the place?”
“It’s fine,” I said, stepping away from the bed and the quilt.
“Well, it’s yours,” Gary replied. “If you think you want to sell it, I can get you in touch with a real estate buddy of mine.”
“Give her time, Gary,” Yulina said, breaking away from his embrace. “This must be very overwhelming for her.”
“It’s okay,” I replied. “I haven’t given it too much thought, to be honest.”
“Of course,” Gary said, bobbing his head up and down. “But if you don’t mind, my wife and I need to skedaddle. We’re already late for dinner.”
I took the keys from Gary’s outstretched hand and, after locking the door, shoved them into my pocket. “Thanks for showing me the house tonight,” I said. “Can I come back anytime?”
“Pretty much,” Gary replied. “There will be some more paperwork, but the house is titled to you upon death, so it really is yours now.”
As Gary hurried out to the car, Yulina grabbed my hand and held me back. “Do you really think you will sell this house?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Annabelle wanted you to have it.”
“Annabelle didn’t know me,” I replied, sounding terser than I’d wanted to. I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but you were right, all of this is a bit overwhelming.”
“I understand,” Yulina said.
“Do you?” I asked.
“In a way,” she replied, a small smile playing at her lips. “In a way.”
I looked away from her and across the street, where the porch light of one of the houses illuminated two figures standing
on the front steps. I couldn’t make out their features, but one of the figures was tall, with broad shoulders—a man, I could tell. He was standing over a smaller figure, a woman, and he was nodding, with his arms crossed over his chest. The woman wasn’t yelling, but she didn’t sound happy either.
When Gary honked at us, causing Sherbet to jump up and run between my feet, both the man and the woman turned to stare at us. Their conversation paused, and I was caught between wanting to squint to see them better and wanting to look away, embarrassed I’d been caught staring.
I reached down and ran my hand along the length of Sherbet’s body, in an attempt to reroute my focus. From the corner of my eye, I could see the woman still looking at us, one hand on her hip and the other pointing at our side of the street.
“Time to go,” Yulina said.
“Are those the neighbors?” I asked.
Yulina nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Look out for the fat one.”
“The fat one?” I asked.
“The woman, Beryl,” Yulina said, her tone dripping with disdain. “She is trouble.”
Before I could ask anything else, Gary honked again, and Yulina jumped.
“We are going to be late,” Yulina said. “Gary hates to be late.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I hope the restaurant doesn’t cancel your reservation.”
“I hate that restaurant,” Yulina replied, leading me off the porch. “The bread tastes like feet.”
I stifled a giggle. “Why don’t you tell Gary you don’t like it?”
Yulina waved one of her hands in the air. “He knows.”
Chapter 12
I WATCHED THE SUV DRIVE AWAY AND THEN SAT DOWN ON the porch steps. I felt exhausted. All I really wanted to do was crawl into bed and pretend I was having a bad dream. I wanted to pretend none of this had ever happened, and although I had no intention of showing it to Annabelle’s friends, or anyone in this damn town for that matter, I was secretly seething that she’d put me in this position.
She’d never wanted to know me when she was alive, and it didn’t matter to me what kind of excuses my parents made for her—she hadn’t wanted me, and she hadn’t wanted to know me. Why, then, was I sitting on her front porch? Why, then, had she left me everything she owned, including another actual living being?
Sherbet rubbed up against my legs as if reading my mind, and I absently reached out to stroke him. He really was a beautiful cat, with his soft orange fur and strange green eyes. I stood up and went back onto the porch and opened a black trash can that read “cat food” in pink spray paint. Sure enough, there was food inside. I put the food in the bowl on the porch for Sherbet, who gladly began snapping it up.
“Excuse me?”
I looked up to see a man standing in the yard, just beyond the steps. He was wearing a pair of ripped, stone-washed jeans and a black T-shirt. He had a shaggy salt-and-pepper beard, and I couldn’t tell, just by looking at him, if he was homeless or a hipster. In one hand he held a leash that was attached to a giant white dog.
“Uh, hello,” I said. I backed up a bit toward the door. I knew it was locked, but for now it was the only direction I could go. “Can I help you?”
The man held up the leash and said, “Are you the animal lady?”
“Am I the what?”
“The animal lady,” he repeated. “You take animals for people who can’t care for ’em no more, right?”
I looked around to see if someone was playing a joke on me. Alice, maybe? Surely this guy was joking. He had to be.
“No,” I said. “I’m not the animal lady. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m sorry.”
He held up a card with an address scrawled on the back and said, “This ain’t 410 Maple Street?”
“It is,” I replied patiently. “But I’m not the person you’re looking for.”
“Is there someone else here who’s the dog lady?”
I sighed. “No, there’s no one else here. It’s just me.”
He took a step toward the porch, and for a split second, I regretted telling him I was alone.
“Look,” I said. “You’re probably looking for Annabelle, right?”
“That sounds like the name they give me,” he said. “She don’t live here?”
“No,” I said. “Well, she did live here, but she died last week. I’m sorry.”
“They told me a lady at this address could take my dog,” the man persisted. “Been damn near three weeks ago, but I didn’t need to find her a home until now.”
“I’m really sorry,” I repeated. “I don’t know what else to tell you, except I’m not the person you’re looking for.”
“What am I supposed to do with her, then?” he asked. “You gotta pay twenty-five dollars to surrender to animal control.”
In the distance, I saw Abel standing in his front yard, a rake in his hand, staring at us. When the man and dog advanced again toward the porch, I saw him throw down the rake and trot toward us.
“Please take her,” the man was saying. “I can’t have her at my new place. She’s a good girl, really.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t have her where I live either.”
“You don’t live here?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t, and I’m sorry, but I really need you to leave now.”
“Hey, Maeve,” Abel said, reaching us. “How’s it going? Is there something I can help with?”
The man held up his hands and took a step back, the dog following loyally behind him. “Naw, it’s all good.”
I felt a wave of guilt watching the man and the dog walk off. The dog was big, but she looked sweet, if maybe a little skinny. I wondered where they were going and what the man would end up doing with her. I didn’t want to think about what could happen if he didn’t find someone to take care of her.
“What was that about?” Abel asked, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Do you know that guy?”
“No,” I said, looking at him. “I don’t know anybody in this town.”
“You know me,” Abel replied, a sly grin spreading across his face.
“I don’t know you,” I said tartly. “You’re an acquaintance.”
“Well, I guess that means you’re not interested in coming over for a drink?” Abel asked. “I just brought home a couple of growlers from a local microbrewery.”
I tried to appear uninterested, but a drink sounded so good that I could practically feel my mouth watering. I crossed my arms over my chest and said, “Why are you being nice to me? Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of hateful hermit?”
“Hateful hermit?” Abel scratched at his black beard. “That sounds an awful lot like a band I was in in college.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked. “I think maybe I saw them once. They were pretty shitty.”
Abel opened up his mouth and let out a guffaw, flashing me his perfect white teeth. It was startling to see them up against the dark thicket of hair, almost like a bear getting ready to pounce . . . if the bear happened to be muscled and tattooed and utterly gorgeous.
“So,” Abel said, angling his head toward me. “How about it? You in?”
I looked back at Annabelle’s house one last time. “Sure,” I said. “It’s not like I have anything else better to do.”
“I’m going to pretend you’re more excited than you are,” Abel replied, beckoning to me to follow.
“I’m actually really excited about the prospect of a drink,” I said. “It’s been a rough few days.”
“I have to say,” Abel said as we walked toward his house, “I was surprised to see you here.”
“Where?” I asked. “At Annabelle’s house?”
“Timber Creek,” Abel replied. “I hadn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t know Annabelle had been in contact with you.”
“So you knew about me?”
“I knew Annabelle gave a baby up for adoption when she was seventeen,” Abel said, his tone guarded. “All she ever told me was that you lived in Seattle with a
nice family.”
“Well, that’s all true, I suppose,” I conceded. I waited for him to open the door, and I walked inside. “But we weren’t in contact with each other.”
“So you didn’t know about her?”
“I did,” I said, stepping into the now familiar hallway. “But like I said, we weren’t in contact.”
Abel looked at me as if he wanted to say something else, but instead he led me into the kitchen, pulled out a cloudy brown jug from the refrigerator, and held it up to me. “Do you like IPAs?”
“Yes,” I replied. I sat down heavily on one of the bar stools facing him and rested my arms against the cool granite countertop. “Fill ’er up.”
“That’s all you need to know before you agree to drink it?” Abel asked.
“At this point I’d drink rubbing alcohol,” I quipped. “But truly, I don’t think I’ve ever met an IPA I didn’t like.”
“Same,” Abel said. “This is my particular favorite. A couple buddies of mine brew it. They just got started a few years ago, but the beer is great, and I’m not just saying that because I hold stock in the company.”
“You own stock in beer?” I asked, impressed. “Cool.”
Abel handed me an overfull glass and said, “They needed a few investors back when they were first starting out. One of them—they’re twins—is married to my wife’s best friend. She’s the local veterinarian.”
“Your wife is the local veterinarian?” I asked without thinking. I regretted it as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
His face closed off. The transition was slight, but not so slight that I didn’t notice it. Abel took a drink of beer. “No,” he replied. “I should have said that the local veterinarian was my wife’s best friend. Claire, that was my wife, has been dead nearly twelve years.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” he said, cutting me off in a tone that told me it most definitely was not fine.
An awkward silence settled and hung between us, both of us gulping our beer so quickly that Abel had refilled both our glasses before I even realized it. After a few minutes, I couldn’t stand it anymore and said, “So, your daughter . . . Maxine, is it? Where is she?”
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